It is strange that friendships, which nourish and sustain us and often provide our deepest source of connection, lack the sort of standards that are routine in romantic relationships

I have this friend, Sarah. Since meeting in our thirties, we’ve shared many of life’s essentials: hairdressers, dog-walkers, phobias (airplanes and mice), health scares, worries over our kids, and insomnia caused by husbands who snore. But lately I’m aware that whenever Sarah calls I feel a tightness in my chest and, more often than not (thanks to caller ID), I don’t pick up the phone. I feel guilty, but that’s preferable to spending hours listening to Sarah complain. I’ve been meaning to tell her how I feel, but I haven’t quite worked up the nerve Lettiska brudar verkliga. Most of the time I feel like a bad boyfriend.

We became inseparable and, at one point, I secretly tried to find out if it was possible to be adopted by your best friend’s family if your own parents were still alive. It wasn’t until college and postcollegiate life on opposite sides of the country that we drifted apart. But we never lost touch and, years later, when I moved with my husband to the city where Natalie lives, she seemed thrilled. Continue reading →